


The Vulcan and His Doctor

by tea_and_violins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek
Genre: AU, Alternative Universive - Future, Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, Human/Alien Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pon Farr, Pre-Slash, Slash, Vulcan!Mycroft, Vulcan!Sherlock, mentions of drug overdose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_and_violins/pseuds/tea_and_violins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2068.  World War III is officially over and the Vulcan species has made first contact with Earth and is now aiding in the relief effort to restore Earth to its former glory.  While that's all well and good, John Watson is bored.  Bored and invalided in London after serving ten years in the army.  Little does he know that a chance encounter with a very unique man will change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody! This is my first fan fiction on this site, and I just wanted to say a quick hello and thanks for reading. Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes set in a Star Trek future. I don't know how I came up with it, but so far I'm loving it and I hope you do to! I'm not sure how long it's going to be just yet, but I'm thinking somewhere around 20 chapters. I'll be updating every week, probably on Saturdays. Anyway, enough rambling. Enjoy!

“Get down! Get down John!” Murray was shouting somewhere to his left. He heard the spray of gunfire and briefly ducked his head, hiding behind a well-placed boulder. Between the sun’s rays bearing down on him, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and the weight of his uniform and kit, he was sweating profusely. A voice rang out from his Com.

“Watson! Get out of there!” his commanding officer shouted.

“Sir, there’s a man down, he’s still conscious, I can hear him screaming. I’m just about to reach him. I can save him.” he answered steadily, although his heart was pounding in his chest.

“That’s an order, Watson!” the voice rang out again, but John ignored it. He could see the fallen soldier; he was almost there. He rose from his hiding place, took one step, then another…

The world had collapsed into a swirling mess of heat, blood, pain, and nothingness as he felt his life force draining from him. The endorphins and adrenaline did little to mask the searing pain in his shoulder. Or was it his leg? His subconscious knew he had been shot, but the only thought that crossed his mind was ‘Please, God, let me live…’ as the world faded away.

 

Returning to a peaceful, yet still recovering London had been extremely difficult for John. After ten years of attempting to subdue the extremist factions in the Middle East during the devastation that was World War III, adjusting to a normal civilian life was tediously monotonous. The war had technically ended four years ago in 2063, when the world had come to a halt as the Vulcans had made first contact with Earth in a little town in the state of Montana in the United States of America. With a death toll estimated at 37 million, many countries decided it was time to put down their arms, disband their nuclear warheads, destroy their stocks of biological weapons, and accept the aid of these superior beings. However, the war torn Middle East had simply refused to believe this contact had been established, chalking the reports coming in from the West up to American propaganda. Surely, this was just simply a way to lower the regions defenses so the Americans could finally invade and claim the region as their own. The extremist factions had little in the ways of nuclear missiles and instead resorted to talking soldiers who were stationed there as restoration units hostage, and sending teams of guerilla combatants to attack restoration platoon strongholds. It was not until 2065, when the Vulcans touched down in Kandahar that the general population decided that enough was enough. The government forces of the Middle East put down their weapons, but the extremist factions remained, hell bent on continuing a war that no longer served a purpose. 

The Vulcans would offer no assistance in the war effort, choosing instead to aid in the reestablishment of the governments around the world, bestowing their logical wisdom, and knowledge of advanced technologies. The Vulcans were a peaceful people, choosing a pacifist lifestyle where logic trumped all other emotions. War was not logical, and therefore no good would come out of engaging in it. Although this frustrated some, John was glad they chose not to fight. This was Earth’s doing, and it was Earth’s responsibility to end it. 

From the time he was aged 23, John had been fighting for his country. Due to the sharp decrease in population, every soldier was expected to fight, even the medics. It was truly a miracle that he had escaped with his life, albeit with a gaping hole in his shoulder, a limp he knew wasn’t really there, a tremor in this left hand, posttraumatic stress disorder, and a boredom that simply would not subside. To say the army pension he lived on was pitiful would be an understatement, but he was not expecting anything more from a country ravished by war. The remnants of buildings blown to bits still not completely cleared, the worst off of people still living in makeshift tents and shacks where their homes used to stand. He should be grateful to have a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in, a door with a lock on it to deter looters and thieves. Although the Vulcans were aiding the government, humans were still human, and crime was still a regular occurrence. John had no qualms about purchasing the illegal British army standard pistol which was currently residing in his desk drawer. He told himself it was only to be used in cases of extreme self-defense, but the truth was after having one strapped to his thigh for a little over ten years, a part of him felt naked without it.

It was a true surprise the day he heard his name being called while walking past the fully operational St. Bartholomew’s hospital, trying desperately to shake off the nightmares that haunted him last night and shake off his boredom simultaneously. He turned to see none other than Mike Stamford, wearing a God-awful tie and significantly fatter than anyone on food rations ought to be. Little did John know while sitting on that park bench, swapping stories with his former classmate and drinking a pitiful excuse for coffee, that this moment was to change his life forever.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the first chapter is more of a prologue, here's a proper chapter. :D

Stamford was concluding his tour of the new, upgraded St. Bart’s with the A&E wing of the hospital. The added technology the Vulcans had provided along with the improvement in lab equipment made the hospital run much smoother than he had remembered. Stamford was about to introduce him to the nursing staff when the code alarms went off. John felt the adrenaline rush through his veins, his medical training kicking in instinctively as he whipped his head around to find the source of the commotion. Behind him, a team of nurses was pushing an ambulance stretcher speedily through the hall. A man was strapped to it, breathing heavily, but clearly unconscious. John could hear bits of the EMT’s voice as he updated the nurses on the patient.

“Male, late twenties, early thirties, no identification, signs of tachyarrhythmia, slight hyperthermia, pupils are blown. Out of the way, gentlemen!” he said as politely as possible while shoving past John and Stamford. One of the A&E physicians finally appeared and confirmed what John had concluded a moment ago. Cocaine overdose, most likely. Step one would be to lower the body temperature. The next would be to inject the man with rimcazole, a drug that would counteract the effects of the cocaine in the bloodstream. It was found in recent years to be quite effective on humans after years of trial and error and numerous studies. John glimpsed the poor man lying on the stretcher as he passed by. His breathing was erratic; sweat pouring off his face, which plastered his chocolate brown curls to this forehead. His face was clearly flushed, although not rosy. Instead of the normal tones of pinks and reds associated with hyperthermia and hyperemia, the man’s pale skin had an almost teal hue to it. That kind of coloring was consistent not with hyperthermia, but with hypothermia in humans. However, the machine reading his vitals did indeed show a temperature increase, along with an increased heart rate. A heart rate so high that it should have killed him by now, if indeed he were human…

“Wait!” John was shouting, interrupting Stamford’s rambling about how sad it was to see people like this. It was hard to keep up with the nurses, with his gimp leg and his cane, but he hobbled along as fast as he could. “Wait! Don’t inject him with anything!” he continued as he bounded after the man on the stretcher and his medical team. Luckily he reached the room just in time. They were hooking various IVs up to tubes and were just about to insert a pick line into the man’s hand when John very unprofessionally clamored into the room.

“Do you know this man, sir?” the attending physician asked, lines on his face placing him in his fifties, tired looking, clearly not in the mood for this kind of excitement. “Is he allergic to any medications?”

“No, Doctor, I don’t know him, but-“

“Then I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave. Nurse, paracetomal for the hyperthermia, I think, and why is his heart rate so high?” the doctor rambled on, dismissing John with a wave of his hand.

A nurse, whom John would have thought quite attractive if he had been paying any attention, began ushering him out of the room. Knowing it was his last chance to stop them, John blurted out, “It’s high because he’s not human! Don’t inject him with anything!”

The nurse stopped pushing him and John took the opportunity to roll his shoulders back and put on his most distinguished ‘I’m a medical professional’ face as the attending physician pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“What on Earth are you talking about, sir?” the doctor questioned, turning his head towards John, doing a poor job of hiding the annoyance in his voice.

“Please, sir, my name is Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The man’s heart rate is so elevated because it’s most likely naturally higher than a human’s in the first place. Look at the coloring of his face; it’s almost green. Go ahead; draw his blood, you’ll see. Or better yet, push his hair back, or even look at his eyebrows. He’s Vulcan.” John approached the patient’s bedside, give the doctor a wary look. He gestured to the man’s curls. “May I?”

The doctor sighed in exasperation, and waved a hand at John in approval. John gently ran his finger through the chocolate brown curls. They were silky even though they had no right to be, they were so drenched in sweat. Sure enough, under the sea of curls lay the tell tale pointed ears of a Vulcan.

“See?” John asked, biting his tongue so he wouldn’t add, ‘I told you so’. 

The attending physician shook his head in disbelief. “I…I don’t know how to treat a Vulcan.” he stammered, his professional demeanor waning ever so slightly. “Are you really a doctor, Mr. Watson? Do you have any experience with Vulcans?”

“Not too many Vulcans in the army, I’m afraid. Normally I would recommend the injections, but we have no clue how he’ll react to them. It might cause an adverse effect and make matters worse. The only steps I’d feel safe taking are cooling his body and trying to stabilize his breathing pattern. Vulcans are much stronger than we are. His body should be able to do the fighting for him.”

The older man nodded in agreement, even though a moment ago he had confessed to knowing nothing about Vulcans. John had to consciously bite back a laugh.

“The mortuary is directly beneath us, correct?” John questioned and the doctor affirmed it with yet another nod. “It will be cold in there. Should bring down his body temperature. That’s all I can recommend.”

“Right, you heard the man! Let’s move! Nurse! Some ice packs for now, stat!” The pretty nurse who had been escorting John out the door a moment ago now ran for the packs. 

The older doctor turned back to John, “Doctor Watson, this man has no identification on him, and we’re short staffed as it is. I have no one to call and no one on staff who has the slightest clue about treating Vulcans.”

The question was never asked, merely implied, and John was not sure what compelled him to answer, “I’ll stay with him. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll stay.”

\-------

The mortuary was indeed cold, and John gladly accepted the warm cup of tea from Dr. Molly Hooper, and the heavy coat from Stamford, who was astonished at John’s knowledge of Vulcans. ‘Well, what else have I got to do while being unemployed and invalided?’ John thought, but merely waved Stamford away with a polite thank you. The unknown Vulcan’s temperature was indeed dropping and his heart rate decreasing, although John was not certain what the normal heart rate was for a Vulcan. Occasionally John checked the man’s pupils for responsiveness. About two hours in, they began to shrink normally against the light of the torch. The man’s irises were an impossible shade of blue. Or was it green? Or grey? John had concluded that if breathtaking were a color, it wouldn’t even come close to describing the hue of this man’s eyes. The greenish tinge had left his cheeks, and the man was ghostly pale, with freckles around his neck and shoulders. His raised eyebrows and the slight opening of his Cupid’s bow mouth gave him a somewhat surprised look, as if something took him off guard. John tilted the man’s head back and checked his nose for signs of a damaged septum, an indicator of habitual cocaine use, and found no signs. The drug must have been injected then. Carefully rolling up the man’s sleeves as not to disturb him, John found the injection sight in the crook of the man’s left elbow. He tsked and shook his head. Why would any Vulcan risk their superior intellect for this drug? It was, well, illogical. Surely there must have been a good reason. Perhaps an experiment gone awry?

A slight knock on the door distracted him as Dr. Hooper popped in with a fresh cup of tea. She was a small woman in frumpy clothing, with a mouth too small for her face, her mousy brown hair pulled back into a long ponytail. She offered the mug to John with a sad smile. John returned the smile and accepted the mug with a “Ta.”

“No matter, John, I know how cold it can get in here. Any luck with our alien John Doe?” she questioned, gesturing to the unconscious man before them while taking a gulp of tea and taking the seat next to him.

“Well, his pupils are beginning to respond, so that’s a good sign. I may take some blood, if you wouldn’t mind sending it to the lab for me, as I don’t exactly, you know, work here.” he added with a chuckle.

“Of course. We’ve got much better equipment from the government now,” Molly responded, “I’m sure they can find the toxicity levels even in Vulcan blood.”

They both sat for a moment in silence, sipping their tea; the machines emitting beeps that were still too fast for John’s liking. Eventually Molly rose from her chair and walked over to the man in the bed and ran a hand down his cheek.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it? He’s sort of…beautiful.”

The statement made John’s stomach turn in a way he wasn’t expecting. Was it jealousy? How could it possibly be jealousy? John had known this man for a little under three hours and all that time the man had been in a state of unconsciousness. Very quickly, John decided he would not worry about his feelings of attachment right now, and shoved them down. However, it didn’t stop him from responding, “Yeah, he is.”

Molly stroked the man’s cheek once more, then turned to John. “It’s good of you to take care of him. I have a friend who runs a little surgery in town. Name’s Sarah Sawyer. I’ll give you her contact information if you’re looking for work. Let me know when you’ve got those blood samples, alright? Equipment’s just there.”

“Sure, thanks Doctor Hooper.”

“It’s Molly, John. I’ll just be in here.” she said, giving John a pat on the shoulder before heading back into the lab.

John set his mug of tea down reluctantly and stood, his leg protesting and his shoulder stiff from the cold. Grabbing his cane, he walked over to the cabinet of supplies Molly had mentioned and found the sterilized needles, vials, bandages, and a fresh pair of gloves. After snapping the gloves on, he rested his cane against the bed frame and gently pushed back the right sleeve of the man’s shirt and tapped at the crook of his elbow to raise a vein. Slowly and carefully, he slipped the needle in the Vulcan’s arm and attached the vial. The blood filled the vial quickly, an acid green color, and the slightest bit thicker than the consistency of human blood, John noticed. He slid the needle out with care and capped the vial of blood, the proceeded to bandage the man’s arm.

“There, see? Easy.” he said softly, his bedside manner reemerging unconsciously as he wrote ‘Doe, John (Vulcan) 29/1/2068’ and opened the door to the lab, passing the contents to Molly.  
“I’ll send it right up, John.” she said with a smile, shrugged on her lab coat, and disappeared from the room. 

John reentered the mortuary, leaned his cane against the wall and sat down, reaching for his cup of now probably cold tea, when a groan interrupted him. He quickly sprang up out of his chair, abandoning his cane. He grabbed his torch and began to check the responsiveness of his patient’s pupils. Fully responsive. Excellent. 

“Well hello there, I was wondering when you were going to wake up.” John said, gently taking the man’s pulse. Still a bit too fast, but that might be normal. How was he to know? “How are you feeling?”

The voice that responded was smooth and rich, a deep baritone with a public school type accent, not even close to what John was expecting. Aliens in movies always had those high-pitched semi-robotic type voices that annoy the piss out of you. He had not expected something so normal, but beautiful in its own right. It took him aback slightly, and even though the room was bordering on freezing, he could feel his cheeks flushing.

“Head aches, pulse slightly elevated, which is to be expected. Chest pains, also expected. Slight pain in my right arm, but that would be due to you drawing blood to check my vitals and toxicity levels. Mouth dry, due to unconsciousness for the better part of roughly four hours, I would say with inconclusive data. Cold, but not uncomfortable. Tired, although I’ve been unconscious. Not experiencing any adverse effects of human medication, which leads me to conclude I was not administered any. Well done, Doctor, you’ve proven yourself more capable than the staff here. Now, can I borrow your phone?”

John raised an eyebrow, but handed the man his phone any way. The man’s fingers began to fly over the keys. “How exactly did you know I don’t work here?” he asked, trying to keep the wonderment and slight skepticism out of his tone.

“The same way I know that you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he’s recently walked out on his wife. Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid. Here’s your phone back, and before you ask, the name’s Sherlock Holmes, I am a Vulcan, and my address is 221B Baker Street, London, England, Earth. Can we move me out of the mortuary now, I’d like to be gone before that woman with too small hands strokes my face like a cat again.” Sherlock’s eyes scanned the room. “Ah, I see you’ve realized your limp is psychosomatic as well, judging by the state of your cane.”

“My…?” John turned to where he had been sitting earlier, and sure enough, his cane was exactly where he left it, resting against the wall. He could not help the grin that spread across his face. “Well, Mister Holmes, that was brilliant.”

“Really? That’s not what most people say.” Sherlock responded, and John could see those impossible eyes light up ever so slightly.

“What do most people say, then?”

“Piss off.”

They shared a brief chuckle. John extended his hand.

“John Watson. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please. Vulcans rarely use our family names. Now let’s get me out of here.”

John was all too happy to oblige. As he began to roll Sherlock's bed towards the door he said, "Fine, but only if you tell me how you knew everything about me. If you don't, I'll leave you down here to be at the mercy of Doctor Hooper."

"Deal." Sherlock agreed.


	3. Chapter Three

Sherlock had never met a human quite like John Watson. Most people tended to avoid him, even though he did his best to blend in. While most of his species chose to maintain their short haircuts and wear their long robes, Sherlock grew his hair out, letting this natural curls cover his ears and the highest point of his eyebrows. He traded in his robes for finely tailored suits, silk shirts and a long charcoal grey wool coat that kept him insulated through this planet’s harsh winters. The fine clothes were difficult to locate, but he had money, which was rare on this planet, and many were willing to locate the materials for the right price. Although his style prevented him from getting strange looks on the street, the moment he opened his mouth, most humans could see him for what he was. On Earth it was considered improper to point out a woman was sleeping with a much younger, richer man than her husband due to a brand of cream she purchased. It was rude to state that a man was hiding his homosexual tendencies from his girlfriend because of the color of his pants. Humans were emotional creatures who took offense to the simplest logical deductions. In his four years on this planet, Sherlock had only met three people who had accepted him for who he was.

Sherlock had come to Earth with his brother Mycroft in June of 2064. Mycroft had been a high-ranking member of the Vulcan council and had willingly agreed to answer the call for help from Earth’s British government. Mycroft had invited Sherlock to come with him, and Sherlock had accepted. Vulcan was boring with its mating rituals and its Kolinahr and its dedication to peace and prosperity. While Sherlock valued reason, logic, and prosperity, it was the never-ending peace that irked him to his core. He longed for something, anything, to happen. Sure, experiments were all well and good and kept his interest peaked for the most part, but the prospect of visiting a planet torn apart by war, running rampant with crime and death sounded far more interesting. He learned the languages quickly; fluent in English, French, Russian, Mandarin, Spanish, and Italian by listening to recordings the Vulcans had obtained from each respective region. Soon he and his brother were on a ship destined for London, England, Earth.

Upon arrival, Mycroft had hoped Sherlock would stay and help the broken government reestablish itself, but Sherlock was never one for politics. Instead, he used his time to learn everything he could about the ways of humans. How did they dress? What did they eat? What music did they like? What drove them to commit crime? What was tobacco? How many types of tobacco ash were there and how could you tell them apart? How many blood types existed among humans? What exactly was the purpose of domesticating animals?

One day, he was examining the various types of vegetation in a small garden outside of a newly built restaurant when several police officers stormed inside the venue. Sherlock quickly put aside his observations and his interest was peaked when a few moments later, the officer emerged with a middle-aged man in handcuffs who was screaming his head off about not being a murderer. One look at the man and it was obvious to Sherlock that this man was not, in fact, a murderer. The screaming man was looking directly into the eyes of the officers, for one, and that was not a trait normally found in the guilty. However, the man did have gashes on the top of his hands that suggested he had been cut on glass, or possibly metal. These kinds of cuts were not consistent with injuries acquired by those in the hospitality industry. Servers and managers were far more likely to have cuts on their palms due to handling broken glass. 

Sherlock had to conclude that the man was indeed a criminal, but not a murderer. Far more likely a looter, smashing in glass to access treasures inside a house or a vehicle. Sherlock then made his presence known to the Detective Inspector, by the name of Dimmock, who immediately dismissed him and his deductions. After that dismissal, Sherlock took it upon himself to investigate local reports of theft in the area and within two days obtained some DNA off of a piece of glass. He presented his case to the police, who then matched said DNA to the screaming man (who turned out to be named Angelo) and eventually Angelo was let off the murder charge. He did, however spend ninety days in jail for petty theft and destruction of property. Thus began Sherlock’s relationship with New Scotland Yard and Angelo, who promised Sherlock he would always eat for free at his restaurant.

His position as a consulting detective was difficult at first, as few of the DIs wanted to work with someone like Sherlock. Many had taken to calling him freak or psychopath when that simply was not true. Instead of revealing that he was Vulcan, Sherlock instead began referring to himself as a highly functioning sociopath, and that seemed to keep the insults at bay, for the most part. 

It wasn’t until the day a recently promoted DI by the name of Lestrade called him in to investigate a murder case that had taken place in Florida by a British citizen named George Hudson, that Sherlock finally felt he had someone on the force that he could work with without getting extremely irritated. 

Mr. George Hudson had been stationed in Florida during the war for a year. According to his wife, Martha Hudson, he had been acting strangely ever since his return. George would receive correspondence from Florida, which he would quickly read, then burn. George would rarely talk about his time in Florida, so when he expressed his interest in returning there, Martha had protested. George left for Florida anyway. It turned out George had a secret wife who had been sending him letters threatening to inform Martha that she existed unless he returned home to her. 

George could not bear to have Martha find out his secret and decided to return to Florida and kill his second wife. It was clearly an open and shut domestic murder. The problem was finding the murder weapon. The woman had died from sudden cardiac arrest, and was originally pronounced dead by natural causes. However, once Sherlock went over the blood work, he found the woman had been given high doses of azithromycin, an antibiotic she was highly allergic to, which caused her to enter anaphylactic shock. After some more digging, Lestrade discovered Hudson had obtained large quantities of the drug over time and was stockpiling it to administer to his second wife. Lestrade was extremely grateful to Sherlock and continued calling him in on cases. Martha Hudson, surprisingly was overjoyed when the news came in that her husband was being sentenced to death, and promptly offered Sherlock accommodations on the cheap at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock gladly accepted, freeing himself from Mycroft’s overbearing eyes.

Sherlock had been in the middle of a case for Lestrade when he was brought to St. Bart’s. He had been posing as a junkie in order to infiltrate a house reputed to be selling highly lethal cocaine, which had been linked to three deaths in the area. Lestrade and his men had been stationed outside the run down house, awaiting Sherlock’s confirmation signal to take the men inside down. Just as he was reaching for his phone to send the text, one of the more intelligent men in the group of dealers knocked it out of his hand, and before Sherlock could react, he was injected with the drug. It would have killed anyone else, but these men did not know Sherlock was Vulcan. As Lestrade’s team went after the fleeing criminals, Sherlock managed to punch 999 into his phone before collapsing into oblivion.

\---

Someone was petting him. A woman by the size of her hands. Annoying. Sherlock wanted to swat her hand away, but the drug was still holding him under.

A few moments later, someone else was touching him. A man this time, Sherlock could tell, even though his touch was gentle. A warm voice was practically cooing to him as he felt a pinch in his right arm.

“There, see? Easy.” the voice said. Yes, it was easy…

Sherlock was cold. He was in pain. Mostly likely in hospital. He let out a groan and then there was bright light in his eyes. The warm voice was speaking again, and it put Sherlock at ease. He opened his eyes on his own accord and was greeted by a man who was clearly a medical professional, although judging by the state of his dress (comfortable jumper, relaxed worn-in jeans) did not work here. The man held himself like a soldier pretending to be a civilian, not quite relaxed, always on alert. While the man probed at Sherlock’s neck, locating his pulse, Sherlock could see he was tanned, but not below his collar. Army doctor, then. The man favored one leg slightly more than the other, not enough for it to be noticeable to another human, but Sherlock could tell. It was almost as if he had a limp, but forgot about it in that moment. Psychosomatic limp. The room was absolutely freezing at this point, but when Sherlock began to speak, the man’s blush was obvious. Not enough data to determine why the blush was caused. The doctor’s phone was relatively new, but clearly used, and most definitely given to him. Harry Watson. Brother’s phone. Engraved, from a wife. Correction: former wife. The brother was clearly an alcoholic who had left his wife. When Sherlock pointed out his deductions, he expected the same reaction he always received from humans: anger, outrage, shock.

Brilliant, the man said. Brilliant. And a smile. Nobody smiled at Sherlock. Correction: Mrs. Hudson always smiled at Sherlock. No stranger had ever smiled at Sherlock.

John Watson was unlike any human Sherlock had ever met before. He was unique, one of a kind, just like Sherlock. He had to know more about this man. Little did Sherlock know that the moment John extended his hand, it would change his life forever.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I can't believe the response this little fic is getting. Thanks for all the kudos and the comments! I'm looking for a beta, so if anyone would like to take up the challenge, let me know.

“Amazing! Right then, Sherlock, what about her? The one walking into A&E.”

“Come now, John, she’s clearly a hypochondriac with three cats. Lives alone. This is her third trip to A&E this week; see how the nurse walking out is ignoring her? See how she keeps checking her pulse and coming away disappointed? She thinks she is having heart palpitations, but it’s all in her head.”

“Ha! How about..mmm..him?”

“Male, forty two, marriage on the rocks, two children whom he doesn’t see as often as he should. Bags around the eyes suggest a career with long hours, obvious indentation in his vest pocket means he is carrying a weapon. Police officer then. Anyway, his name is Detective Inspector Lestrade and judging by his gait and the scowl on his face, he has come to yell at me.”

“Now that is cheating.”

“You asked, I answered. Parameters stating I must reveal I know said subject were never specified.”

Sherlock had been released from the hospital as soon as his toxicity report came back negative. John had been correct in his assumption that Sherlock’s body would push the cocaine out of his system on its own. Once Sherlock was released, John insisted on having him take a few laps around the hospital grounds to make certain he could stand on his own two feet. To pass the time, John was pointing out passersby and having Sherlock deduce them.

The last man John had pointed to was indeed DI Lestrade who unfortunately had his subordinate, Sally Donovan, in tow. Although Sally was dedicated to justice and was efficient enough at her job, she, like most others on the force, had taken a strong disliking to Sherlock and took every opportunity to express her opinions on the matter. Sherlock did his best to ignore her, but when she was being particularly annoying, a subtle hint towards the fact that she was having an affair with the equally insufferable but significantly more dim-witted forensics expert Anderson usually silenced her long enough for Sherlock to think.

John and Sherlock came to a halt as Lestrade strode toward them, clearly torn between concern for Sherlock’s well being and anger at his willingness to jump head first into danger. John made a move to step away to give the men a bit of privacy, but Sherlock grabbed at his sleeve.

“You’ll want to stay, John, this should be most entertaining for you.”

John was slightly surprised at the complete lack of personal space Sherlock had exhibited. It was fairly common knowledge that Vulcans were generally stand-offish about touching or even being too near another being, but on their walk, Sherlock’s arm brushed against John’s at least three times that John had noticed, and Sherlock had shaken John’s hand rather than giving what John had taken to calling the Vulcan salute. Then again, how many Vulcans were willing to fight crime and risk their lives on what seemed to be a daily basis? Sherlock, John had concluded, was in a league of his own. So John remained where he was, despite his better judgment, as Lestrade reached them.

“You daft git! What were you thinking going in on your own? You knew I had an officer ready to enter with you, but you went in anyway! You should have waited for me, and let us handle things, Sherlock. Instead, I had to go on a wild goose chase hunting down murderous coke fiends and when I came back, you were nowhere to be found! If you hadn’t texted me, I would still be out looking for you.” Lestrade shouted, as Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“Surely it wasn’t as dramatic as all that, Detective Inspector. As you can see, I am perfectly well, thanks to my colleague here.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, gesturing with absurdly long fingers to John.

It was Lestrade’s turn to raise an eyebrow. John offered his hand to the DI. “John Watson. Pleasure.” A clearly baffled Lestrade accepted it with a firm grasp.

“A colleague? How do you get a colleague?” Sally chimed in. “What did he do, follow you home?” She laughed at her own joke as the three men stared daggers at her. She took the hint and quickly shut her mouth, to the relief of the rest of the group.

“Sherlock, I’ll need you to come down to the station and give your statement.” Lestrade said, in a much calmer tone.

Sherlock looked less than enthused about that prospect. “Later, Detective Inspector. John and I are currently headed to 221B. John is seeking better accommodation than his current residence and as I have an unoccupied bedroom in my flat, I see no reason why he should not take up residence with me.”

“I am?” This was news to John. Instead of contradicting Sherlock, John cleared his throat and said, “Yes, of course, that’s exactly what we were doing.”

Sherlock was already walking away when he said, “I shall be there first thing in the morning, Detective Inspector. Do keep up John, the likelihood of obtaining a cab is diminishing by twenty nine point six percent as we speak.”

John mumbled his goodbyes and trotted off after the Vulcan, leaving a bewildered Lestrade in his wake. 

\---

Two months passed as John settled into his life at 221B. Sherlock was an impossible flatmate, leaving papers all over the flat, eyeballs in the microwave, staying up until all hours of the night playing violin, never stocking the fridge or pantry. He would rarely eat and slept an average of four hours a week, usually in one sitting. When John mentioned that lack of sleep could be detrimental to one’s health, Sherlock simply scoffed and said, “Vulcans can go as far as two weeks without sleep, John, don’t be an idiot. No, don’t look like that, practically everyone is.”

Sherlock’s lack of personal space continued, reading over John’s shoulder as he blogged about cases they were called on, stealing John’s phone or laptop when it inconvenienced him to locate his own, pushing and pulling at John when chasing after criminals through London. Occasionally John would catch Sherlock staring at him for hours at a time as John went about his daily routine, making tea, reading the news, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of organization and cleanliness in the flat.

Then there was the matter of Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, who had decided that the best way to introduce himself was to essentially kidnap John and attempt to bully him into spying on Sherlock for money. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft had decided to pursue Kohlinahr and purge himself of all emotion. Next to Mycroft, Sherlock looked like the most emotional person in the world. It wasn’t until John put a bullet through a murderous cabbie in order to save Sherlock’s life not forty-eight hours after meeting him, did Mycroft seems to grasp the loyalty John had for Sherlock. Eventually he backed off, but John always kept the warning Sherlock had given him about his brother in the back of his mind. “My brother is the British government. He is also the most dangerous man you will ever meet.” John didn’t need telling twice and learned to keep Mycroft at arm’s length.

Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, was over the moon when she met John, always stating how wonderful it was that Sherlock had found a friend. She was the sweetest woman John had ever met, and the only person Sherlock deigned to show any affection towards; if John did not assume intense staring did not classify as affection. As much as Mrs. Hudson insisted that she was not their housekeeper, John had on more than one occasion come home to find the floor mopped, or the refrigerator organized, Sherlock’s thumbs or mold or whatever experiment resided in the fridge clearly labeled and moved to the bottom shelves. Sherlock could claim all he wanted that caring was not an advantage; John could tell Mrs. Hudson had a special place in Sherlock’s heart.

One peaceful night, as John was sipping his tea and reading a book, and Sherlock was staring out the window while playing his violin, Sherlock abruptly stopped playing and turned toward John and began to stare. John sighed, placed his book on the end table and looked up.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“John. It has recently come to my attention that I have never bestowed upon you my gratitude for saving my life on two separate occasions. I dare to say that I would be lost without you.”

Although it was stated as if Sherlock were reading the grocery list, John’s heart swelled. As difficult as Sherlock could be at times, there were moments like this one in which John could forgive Sherlock his eccentricities, his often-emotionless demeanor, and his complete carelessness for other people’s feelings. Sherlock was the most brilliant being John had ever come across in his whole life, and he knew in that instant that there was not a doubt in his mind that he loved this man. Others may shy from him, call him a freak, or use him purely for his mind, but only John was privy to moments like this one, where Sherlock revealed the true depth of his heart. That was worth any negative circumstance he had to endure.

“I’ll always be there for you, Sherlock.” he said quietly, as the Vulcan continued playing. What John could not see was the small smile that danced on Sherlock’s lips as they resumed their comfortable evening in 221B Baker Street.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still looking for a beta! Anyone? Anyone? This chapter took me a while, but I'm really happy with how it turned out. The plot begins!

On a warm day in June, much to Sherlock and John’s dismay, Mycroft came to call. Usually, when Mycroft dropped in, he made himself at home, graciously accepting John’s offer of tea and seating himself in John’s favorite chair. Then began the inevitable staring contest between Sherlock and Mycroft as the hour passed. Occasionally Sherlock would comment on how Mycroft’s preference for Earth’s sweet was making him soft around the middle, Mycroft would take a jab at Sherlock’s refusal to completely purge himself of emotion, and John would sit quietly on the sofa, willing time to speed up. This time, however, was quite different.

The doorbell chimed, and John tore himself away from his blog to answer it. Sherlock had been hanging upside down on the sofa strumming at his violin, reorganizing his mind palace. When the doorbell chimed, he promptly righted himself and assumed the position, straightening his disheveled suit jacket and seating himself in his oversized green chair, his long fingers steeped under his chin, violin resting in his lap.

“Mycroft then?” John asked with a sigh, as he passed the Vulcan on his way to the door.

“Yes, and judging by the half second ring on the bell instead of his usual full second, it will be something important. Unfortunately.” Sherlock added as an afterthought. 

John trampled down the stairs and tried to mask his irritation as he opened the door for Mycroft, wearing a professional pinstripe suit and carrying his trademark umbrella, who brushed past him stating, “No need to put the kettle on John, I’ll be brief.”

John rolled his eyes and followed the Vulcan up the stairs. Just as he was about to take his place on the sofa, Mycroft’s steely gaze met him.

“John, I am afraid I shall have to ask you to step out for a moment. This is a matter of national importance.”

“Mmm…no.” Sherlock said for him before John even drew breath in to form a response. “John is imperative to my work, an extension of what I do. Therefore it is of equal importance to us both.” 

Mycroft’s gaze on John was intense. What was with Vulcans and staring? Was it a planet wide past time? Perhaps it was just the Holmes brothers. Either way, John had months of training when it came to being mentally analyzed for hours on end, and did not tear his eyes from Mycroft’s. He would not back down without a fight. Eventually, Mycroft sniffed and snapped his head around to Sherlock.

“Earlier in the day, it came to our attention that files on a phaser prototype which the government has been working on had been stolen. It is likely that the person who stole these plans does not know what to do with them. Nevertheless, I need them back, as they are classified category five information. I have obtained evidence from a boot print which should be sufficient enough to locate the thief.” Mycroft stated. “I need you to track him down and recover the files. I would do it myself, but it requires…legwork.” He said with disgust as he began to pick at his fingernails.

“Wait, what? What exactly is a phaser?” John stammered.

“A gun without bullets, to put it plainly. It will have two settings: stun and kill. It is to be standard issue for government officials, police forces, and the future officers of Star Fleet, which will…well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?” Mycroft sneered at John.

“Leave John alone, Mycroft.” Sherlock said coolly. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother. “You care too much for this man, Sherlock.”

“I don’t believe that’s any concern of yours.” John snapped at the Vulcan.

“On the contrary, John. It is every concern of mine.” Mycroft turned back to Sherlock. “As you are nearing your time of pon farr I shall attribute your feelings for this man to your heightened sense of-”

Sherlock interrupted Mycroft by putting his bow to the violin’s strings and producing the most terrible screeching noises. John could not help but laugh.  
Mycroft grimaced and placed the small vial of material collected from the boot print on the end table before promptly exiting the room.

“Find me those files, Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted up the stairs before slamming the door on his way out. John was laughing so hard he was reduced to tears. He wiped the moisture from his eyes, and saw Sherlock glimpsing at the vial on the table. There was never a doubt in John’s mind that Sherlock would not take the case. He could never turn down a puzzle, no matter how seemingly easy it seemed.

As Sherlock was holding the vial up to the light, John took a moment to appreciate him. Sherlock was by all means the most beautiful being John had set eyes on. His skin was nearly flawless, except for the few freckles sprinkled around his neck and shoulders, pale, but with a slightly green tinge due to his copper-based blood. The color of his skin only accentuated his eyes, which were swirling pools of blue, then green, then grey. After nearly half a year living with Sherlock, John still had not been able to pinpoint their exact color, but he found he did not want to. It only added to the mystery of Sherlock. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, which caused his smooth forehead to crease ever so slightly. Sherlock’s pointed ears were slightly more noticeable underneath his mop of curls due to a recent haircut that John had insisted on giving him. 

John had never had any gay inclinations in the past, but how could anyone not take one look at Sherlock and not think him stunning? How could people who were privileged enough to get the tiniest glimpse of the majesty that was his mind and not think him brilliant? How could anyone think this fascinating creature was a freak, or a psychopath? How could anyone spend any time around Sherlock and not love him, just as he was? The deduction was simple to make, even to John. People were fools.

Sherlock had stuck up for him today. Twice. Usually John was the one telling people off for picking on Sherlock, getting in Anderson’s face, telling Sally to shove it. Then again, John rarely received any untoward hostility from anybody. John was generally very likeable. Still, this was something new, Sherlock sticking up for him. It made John wonder if what Mycroft said was true. Did Sherlock care for John as John did for him? And what in the hell was pon farr?

“If you’re quite finished thinking, John, I’d like to make for St. Bart’s. It’s nearly time for Molly’s lunch hour and I’d very much like to avoid her, if at all possible. She keeps asking me if I want coffee. Why would I want coffee if I am not thirsty?” Sherlock mused.

“She’s not asking you if you want coffee, you dolt, she’s asking you to go for coffee with her. Honestly, you see through everything and everyone in seconds, but what’s incredible is how spectacularly ignorant you are about some things.” said John.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I expect you mean ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a nice way.”

John opened his mouth to rebuttal, but Sherlock merely tucked the vial into his jacket pocket and said, “Come on, John, I should have this case solved before nightfall.”

\---  
Before nightfall turned into chasing the thief around London at midnight, John narrowly avoiding a bullet, and Sherlock bringing down the thief by pinching his neck until the man shortly fell into unconsciousness. John reminded himself to ask Sherlock to teach him how to do that one day. The files were safely recovered and the thief, the future brother-in-law of a government official, was carted away by some of Mycroft’s minions. John’s adrenaline was pumping through his veins, but by the time he and Sherlock had returned to 221B, the endorphins had left his body and he was exhausted. He congratulated Sherlock on a job well done and trudged his way up the stairs to his bedroom, looking forward to a peaceful night’s sleep.

Gunshots. So many. Smoke coming from all directions. Someone was crying out to him. He tried to run toward the screams of agony, but it was if he walking through molasses. The cries for help grew louder, and louder…

“John! John!”

John woke with a start, his heart in this throat, hands grasping at the bedclothes, desperately trying to hold on to some sense of reality. He was suddenly aware of another’s presence in the room. His first instinct was to reach for the gun hidden in this nightstand drawer, but the other man was quicker than him, pinning him to the bed. 

“John, stop it. You were dreaming. You’re home. You’re safe. You’re in 221B. Stop now.” a rich voice told him. “Look at me, John. See me.”

“Sherlock?” John gasped, trying to steady his breathing. The world came back into focus and he laid his eyes on the other man. Despite the dim light of dawn seeping in through the window, he made out the silhouette of his tall, slender friend, the pale hue of his skin, the slanted eyebrows still hidden behind a mop of curls. Just to be certain, John cautiously raised a hand to touch the side of the man’s head, searching for the pointed ears he hoped lay underneath the sea of dark waves. Yes, it was Sherlock. Elated, John threw his arms around the man’s neck and clung to him, a sigh of relief escaping from his lips as his heart began its journey south to its proper place. His eyes swelled with tears that he furiously blinked away. He was safe. He was home. He was with Sherlock. 

After a moment’s pause, John felt the Vulcan’s arms slither across his back as Sherlock delivered what he hoped would be a comforting gesture. From what Sherlock had observed in human behavior, this seemed to be the correct course of action. What he did not anticipate was the gentle shushing and the reassuring, “It’s alright, I’m here” that slipped from his lips before he could think about it. It felt…instinctual. Sherlock quickly stored that emotion in his mind palace to analyze later. Over the course of the last six months, Sherlock had indeed been experiencing more feelings, all revolving around John. John is in danger: anger. John tells of Sally at a crime scene: pride. John is sick with flu caught from the surgery: concern. John is being funny: endearment. John is having a nightmare: comforting. Eventually they had become so frequent, Sherlock had to clear space in his mind to create a room specifically for John. This room held all the deductions he had made about John from which jumper he prefers to wear on a first date, to his haircut schedule, to his height and weight measurements, to what situations may trigger nightmares. After being shot at today, Sherlock had calculated a ninety-seven percent chance of a nightmare occurring and awaited the cries John emitted when experiencing said dream. 

John was a mystery in which every time Sherlock had thought he had solved, would unravel another detail Sherlock had failed to account for. The nearly five years Sherlock had spent studying human behavior did not prepare him for the enigma that was John Watson. John was a conductor of light, a spark that lit the fire that was Sherlock’s mind. Mycroft had been correct. He did care for this man, perhaps too much than was expected of a Vulcan. Was it his upcoming pon farr that triggered it? Data needed to be analyzed. Later. Right now, he was breathing in John’s scent. He smelled of tea, soap, sweat, and a scent that was distinctly John, storing the information in John’s room in his mind.

Gradually John came back to his senses and released his grip on Sherlock. Certain that his heart rate had dropped and his normal breathing pattern was reestablished, Sherlock allowed himself to sit upright as John leaned against the bed frame to compose himself. Sherlock observed the clear signs of embarrassment on John’s face: flushed cheeks, avoiding eye contact, and wondered why John felt this way. Embarrassment was the most difficult of human emotions for Sherlock to grasp, as it was completely illogical. John had a bad dream and sought comfort, a perfectly normal reaction with no clear cause for embarrassment. 

“Er, sorry about that. I haven’t had a nightmare like that in months.” John said, still not meeting Sherlock’s gaze.

“Three months, nineteen days, three hours, and nineteen minutes, actually.” clarified Sherlock.

“Yeah, but who’s counting.” said John with a chuckle, finally looking at Sherlock with blue eyes that reminded him of the Thames at twilight. His blond hair was in disarray, John was due for a haircut in two days time, and clung to his forehead from the perspiration brought on by the nightmare. His pupils were wide, due partially to the shock, partially to the limited lighting in the bedroom. His lips were dry and his tongue flicked over them to renew their moisture. Sherlock had never observed John directly after a nightmare and quickly stored the new data in his mind to analyze later. A long thought session was in order today, unless Lestrade called him away with something more interesting. Although, at times, there was nothing more interesting than John. 

“I probably interrupted one of your experiments.” John said as an afterthought, and Sherlock shook his head.

“I was merely observing the coagulation of saliva after death.”

“Ah, that would explain the severed head in the fridge. Remind me to yell at you about that later.” A smile spread across his face, and Sherlock knew he was joking. “Well, er, thanks for waking me, Sherlock, and um, you know, sorry about, um, latching onto you like that.” John bit his lip and lowered his gaze. Embarrassment, again.

Sherlock could have gone off on the science of fear and the natural need in humans for comfort. He could have told John that it was only logical to wake him from a nightmare as studies have proven this to be the best course of action. He could have gone on to say he had wanted to collect data on a human’s emotional state in correlation to the after effects of disturbing dreams.

Instead all he said was, “I’ll always be there for you, John.” and took his leave. What he could not see was the single tear John had been holding back tumble down his cheek before he brushed it away.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dodges tea kettles and various objects everyone is throwing at me* I know, I'm sorry, it's been a while. I've had a hell of a June, and I can't apologize enough. What I can do is promise you that I've got four more chapters written that will be up throughout July! And I can tell you that it is going to be Johnlock central over here at the Vulcan and His Doctor so stay tuned!

Sherlock was crouched over the body of a man in his late forties on a bank by the Thames, with Detective Inspector Lestrade hovering behind him. There was a chill beginning to form in the air, England’s seasons changing from summer to fall in late September. The weather was still manageable to John Watson, clad in a heavy woolen jumper and jeans, but Sherlock had already donned his trademark wool coat and scarf, warm leather gloves covering his long fingers. John knew even after four years on Earth, Sherlock had a difficult time acclimating to the colder temperatures. Vulcan is a warm planet, with deserts and heat nearly year round. When Sherlock told John this, he was reminded of Afghanistan’s harsh climate. But John had grown up in England and adjusted quickly. The breeze coming off the river was welcoming, the smell of dying leaves and autumn filling the air, and John breathed it in as he watched Sherlock flit around the body, fold away magnifying glass examining every detail, chocolate brown curls falling into his now verdigris eyes. John would have to give Sherlock a haircut when they got back home. 

John couldn’t pinpoint exactly when over the past eight months it had fallen into his job description to give Sherlock haircuts, but he didn’t mind. Just like he didn’t mind doing the shopping, or paying the bills, or cooking, or cleaning, or generally being in charge of Sherlock’s well being. The things he did mind; the thumbs in the fridge, the violin playing at four in the morning, being dragged out on a case after a ten hour shift at the surgery, having his girlfriends driven off after a few weeks because he couldn’t help putting Sherlock first; well, they became more tolerable as time went on. John had been living with Sherlock for eight months now and wouldn’t trade it for the world. It was all worth it in the end. Over the past month or two, Sherlock would know the exact count, John had stopped pursuing women. Why put in all the time and effort and money, when they would just be gone a week or two later? At least, that’s what he told himself. The truth was, lately the only thing he wanted involved impossible blue eyes, a cupid’s bow mouth, a lanky figure, a velvet voice, and a fascinating brain. 

John could pinpoint the exact moment when his love for Sherlock turned into something more than friendship. Sherlock had come into John’s room in June and held him after a nightmare. When he left, John felt the change. He didn’t want Sherlock to leave his room, his bed, him. Ever.

“Boring!” Sherlock snapped at Lestrade, his voice bringing John back into the here and now. “This is a four. John and I agreed we are not leaving the flat for anything less than a seven.”

“Sorry, when did we decide this?” John raised an eyebrow at his flatmate. Surely he would have remembered a conversation like this.

“We agreed it yesterday.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, turning his coat collar up against the wind.  
Can you not, Sherlock? Stop with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool. We’re at a crime scene and I need to stop thinking of you like that right now. Can’t you read it all over my face? Can’t you see how I look at you? Or is this just one of those things you are spectacularly ignorant about?

“I wasn’t even at home yesterday, I was at that medical conference, then I went out with Stamford afterwards. You know that, you deduced it when I got home.” John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Not my fault you weren’t listening.” Sherlock said sharply, but John saw his lip curl into the small secret smile Sherlock reserved just for John, and any annoyance John felt simply disappeared.

“What do you mean, it’s a four?” Lestrade said in exasperation, his hair getting a tad grayer every day. His wife had finally filed for separation, Sherlock deduced. If Lestrade had not had so much extra stress placed on him, he would have solved this murder on his own. It was terribly obvious. So obvious, Sherlock was going to give this one to John. John had previously examined the body and found the cause of death to be a broken neck from a fall. There were many easy observations to be made about the victim in front of them, and Sherlock wanted to prove a point. He wanted to show Lestrade that his team was so incapable of doing their jobs that a medical doctor with only eight month’s experience being an assistant to the world’s only consulting detective could solve this murder.

“John, take us through it.” Sherlock said, placing his hand gently on the small of John’s jumper-clad back. From day one Sherlock would always push and pull at John, read over his shoulder, get too close when speaking, but John never seemed to mind. Sherlock was never one for personal space, and John accepted that. However, Sherlock had observed that while in the past John merely tolerated his touch, now he seemed to crave it. Even now, John was leaning into Sherlock, nothing inappropriate, nothing that would raise eyebrows, or send tongues wagging. Just enough so John’s shoulder rested against Sherlock’s chest. It was easy for Sherlock to maintain his cool demeanor, but he was certain his heart rate had elevated, as did John’s. He stored this moment in John’s room of his mind palace. Later.

“You want me to do it?” John questioned, looking up a Sherlock, his deep blue eyes meeting Sherlock’s gem green ones. They had been ice blue not a moment ago…

“You know my methods. Go on. It’s a four, John, only a four. Don’t just see, observe. And remember, once you rule out the impossible-“

“Whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. Right. Okay.” John nodded at Sherlock and was graced with another smile from the Vulcan. As a rule, Sherlock never smiled at anyone expect for John, unless he needed to unleash it on some poor unsuspecting woman to get information at a crime scene. John understood why they would get flustered and tell Sherlock everything they knew. The man was gorgeous when he smiled.

John approached the body. “Okay, so, we already know he most likely died from a fall. No bruising around the neck or face to suggest that his neck was snapped by hand. His clothes are new. And expensive. I’m fairly certain these are the jeans you wanted me to get last time I went shopping with you, Sherlock. They were near two hundred quid. New boots, new shirt. Boots are steel toed. Practical, long lasting clothing, even if it is expensive. Maybe he was some sort of carpenter?” John looked to Sherlock for reassurance.

“Sparkling form, John. Go on.” Sherlock said, gloved fingers steepled at his chin. The contrast between the dark leather and the Vulcan’s pale skin was striking, and John had to turn away and refocus on the body.

“There’s a chain around his neck with a ring. Looks to be a man’s ring by the size. The victim is wearing a ring as well. So he must have been a widower, married to another man, not ready to move on. Maybe his husband passed recently. Might explain why he was able to buy these clothes. The rings are old, and were clearly made during the war. They are crudely made. You can tell the gold was melted down to make them. Sometimes, in the army, we had to melt down bits of tin and old guns to make new bullets.”

“Brilliant, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, as Lestrade’s face began to flush with embarrassment. John tried hard not to beam up at Sherlock, so he kept his face on the body. 

“His shirt is wrinkled here, like someone grabbed it and twisted. Here too. Two hands. He was pushed, wasn’t he, Sherlock?” John needed this confirmation.

“Yes, John, but why and by whom?” Sherlock prompted.

“Money would be the most likely motive. This man came into a lot of it recently. Probably passed onto him when his husband died. Nothing is stolen on the body, so robbery wasn’t the motive. So, the victim was up high, doing construction with someone he trusted. I wouldn’t wear that much jewelry if I were working with someone I didn’t trust. He gets pushed to his death and moved from the scene. That was stupid. Why move the body? Could have played it off like an accident. The killer must have panicked. So it was a crime that was committed, and then regretted later. We see that a lot with family members, don’t we Sherlock?” John questioned, glancing at the Vulcan. Sherlock nodded.

“It had to be the brother then. Next of kin. He would get the money. This man is statistically unlikely to have much family living, especially his parents. I’m younger than he was and it’s only me and Harry left in ours. So, how to link the brother to the victim and the crime….Hang on, what’s this? Sherlock, lend me your magnifying glass.”

Sherlock came to crouch down next to John. As the two men looked through the glass at the small piece of green wood embedded in the victim’s hand, John felt Sherlock’s leather gloved hand slither up his neck as if Sherlock were placing it there for balance. John knew better, Sherlock had the most defined center of gravity John had ever seen. The man had balance like a cat, probably better than one. It was there for no reason other than Sherlock wanted it to be. That was more than fine with John. In fact, it was brilliant. 

“So, what’s your verdict, Doctor Watson?” the liquid velvet voice poured in his ear.

John looked up at a baffled and clearly frustrated Lestrade. 

“If the brother has a green ladder, arrest the brother. The rest will unfold once you start digging.” He felt a reassuring squeeze on the back of his neck and he knew he had gotten it right.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorites. Enjoy!

‘John Hamish Watson. Thirty-four years of age. Five feet, six inches tall. 12.85 stone. Scar on left shoulder due to bullet passing through. Blonde hair with signs of graying around the temples. Maintains a military style haircut which is groomed every six weeks. Well muscled stature. Left handed. Still favours left leg despite repressing a psychosomatic limp. Calloused hands, rough from years of war. Skin has maintained a golden hue, despite living in London for three hundred and fifty eight days.

Suffers from reoccurring nightmares an average of every one hundred and four days, sometimes less, sometimes more. Solider. Doctor. Consulting detective’s assistant. Hobbies include: rugby, reading, running about London. Takes tea with milk, no sugar, prefers Earl Grey. Go to takeout is Chinese. Prefers Mongolian beef with white rice and dim sum. Dislikes when body parts mingle with groceries in the refrigerator.

Has not been on a date with a woman in one hundred and eighteen days. Has shown a disinterest in women since the night of a particularly gruesome nightmare. Prefers my company instead. Does not mind my staring or deducing. Does not mind my violin playing at four in the morning. Wishes I would sleep more although armed with the knowledge that I do not require much sleep. Concerned for me. Cares for me. Makes me feel.

I am Vulcan. I do not feel. I do not have friends. I do not love. Love is illogical. It cannot be explained. However, data collected over the past two hundred and ninety one days proves otherwise. I enjoy John’s scent, which generally smells of tea, and wool, and something uniquely John. My heart rate increases ever so slightly when he is near me. I find myself reaching out to touch him, although I never have laid a hand on anybody, save for Mrs. Hudson, who is dear to me in a different way. My pupils dilate when he speaks to me, or looks at me, or praises me, even as he yells at me. I have purposely stopped cutting my hair simply to feel his hands in it when he determines it to be too long. I crave his attention. I long to touch his bare skin with my bare skin. To enter his mind through a telepathic bond. To know what he is feeling and why. 

I have never felt this way toward anyone. John Watson is a mystery to me, and even though it infuriates me sometimes, I would quite like to keep it that way. These emotions cannot be attributed to my near approaching pon farr, for I have never entered into the emotional disarray that pon farr usually triggers. I have never engaged in pon farr. But now I feel I will be powerless to stop it. For I am in love, and the concept is foreign to me. Even mated Vulcans would never claim to be in love with their partner. There is simply no other explanation for these feelings. Now, how to go about dealing with them?’

Sherlock felt a weight on his shoulders and was instantly warmed by the heavy wool blanket John wrapped around him. The feeling pulled him out of his mind palace and back into the real world. He was perched on his oversized green chair, already snug inside of his Belstaff coat, waving his hands about his face as he mentally reorganized John’s room in his mind. The crisp October night air was beginning to infiltrate the flat and despite the fire that John had lit, Sherlock was still cold. Of course John would know that Sherlock detested the winter months in England and craved the warmth of Vulcan more than anything, as Sherlock frequently complained about it. John appeared in front of Sherlock, gently cupping the Vulcan’s chin, blue eyes darting about Sherlock’s face with concern. ‘Going to suggest I need more sleep, taking in my colouring, I’m too blue for his taste.’ Sherlock deduced in his mind.

“I don’t like your colouring, Sherlock. When was the last time you slept?” John asked with a furrowed brow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. We agreed two weeks is too long to go without sleep. You’ll exhaust yourself.” John’s fingers moved to Sherlock’s throat, counting his pulse, and Sherlock relished the feeling of John’s warm hand against his neck. John was wearing his favourite jumper, a heavy cream colored one that John looked simply awful with John’s colouring, but was so incredibly suited to him. John enjoyed being comfortable and practical, while Sherlock favoured silks and cashmere and fine tailoring. After years wearing nothing but army regulated clothing and uniform, Sherlock could understand why John preferred his jumpers and jeans.

“You could have my room for a night, if you’d like. It’s warmer up there, not as drafty. Tea?” John suggested, removing his hand from Sherlock’s pulse and heading toward the kitchen. Sherlock nodded in acceptance. “Put another log on the fire, Sherlock, it’s almost out.”

“No. I’m comfortable.” Sherlock replied curtly, tugging his collar up in an attempt to cover his pointed ears.

“Sherlock…” John said in annoyance, as he removed two mugs from the experiment free cabinet, which after months of debate and deliberation he had managed to confiscate from Sherlock. 

“Fine.” Sherlock groaned, and left his cocoon of warmth to stoke the fire. Fires are boring.

“Thank you.” John poured the warm tea into the mugs and brought them back into the sitting room, steam rising off the top of them, the Earl Grey scent filling the air, smelling slightly of John.

“You haven’t got anything on, then?” John questioned as he swatted at the Union Jack pillow before collapsing into his plaid print armchair. 

“No. Lestrade hasn’t rung for three days now.” Sherlock stabbed at the fire with the wrought iron poker until it was ablaze again and the heat washed over him. Satisfied with his project, he returned to his green armchair, pleased to find it still warm, and picked up his tea. “We should be expecting Mycroft within the week.” he said, blowing on his tea to cool it before taking a large gulp. Perfect, as usual.

“Oh, the joy.” John said sarcastically, and Sherlock’s lip quirked up in response. “To what will we owe the pleasure?”

“He will be beginning his campaign to return me to Vulcan.” Sherlock answered, a shiver shooting down his spine at the prospect.

John raised an eyebrow over his mug. “I thought you were setting up home here.”

“I have no desire to return to Vulcan. Certainly not during pon farr.” Sherlock scoffed.

Relief flooded John’s face. They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, Sherlock closing his eyes, John staring out the window, until John suddenly leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clutching his mug in both hands. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock responded, not opening his eyes.

“Can I ask you something?” John ran a hand through his hair.

“As there is nothing physically stopping you from doing so, I daresay you can.” Sherlock said.

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock simply opened his eyes and met John’s. John decided that was enough of an answer.

“Did you ever have a girlfriend?”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Girlfriend? No. Not really my area.”

John nodded and pursed his lips, his cheeks flushing. “Oh. Did you have a…boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock cut him off. “No, I did not. If you had asked me before I had come to Earth I would have told you I did not have a sexual preference. Or even any desire towards having a partner. It is one of the reasons I left Vulcan.”

“Really? Why?” John questioned.

“There is a mating ritual on our planet called pon farr. Although Vulcans have chosen to suppress their emotions, every seven years of our life, he or she feels the drive to mate with their selected partners. There is much pomp and circumstance behind it, I will not bore you with the details. When I was seven, I was partnered with a female of my species. Her name is difficult to translate into Human English, but the closest name would be Irene. Vulcans reach maturity faster than humans, so some mate in their fourteenth years, but most do not feel the full effects of pon farr until their twenty first year.” Sherlock explained.

“So, what happened, with Irene?” John asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes, nothing, John. I dislike repeating myself.” Sherlock sighed. “When I entered my twenty first year and still did not experience the strong desires and maddening emotions that pon farr triggers, Irene chose another partner, and I was made an outcast.”

“Oh.” John sat back in his chair and absorbed the information. “You will be twenty-eight come January.” 

“Yes. The day of my birth falls on January the sixth on your calendar next year.” Sherlock drained the remainder of his tea.

“Mycroft said something about you caring for me too much. That day I got shot at. He said he would attribute it to your pon farr.” John said, not as nonchalantly as he had hoped.

“Yes. However, the opposite is true. I do believe my recent surge of emotion may be what finally triggers my pon farr.” 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.” 

“You said, if I had asked you before you came to Earth, you wouldn’t have had a sexual preference.”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Two pairs of eyes locked and in a moment, both men understood what the other had been trying to say all along. John stood from his armchair, crossed over to the Vulcan and perched himself on Sherlock’s armrest.

“I meant what I said, Sherlock, all those months ago. I told you I would always be here for you.” John tentatively reached for Sherlock’s bare hand, and was surprised as Sherlock pulled away, rejection hitting him square in the stomach. Sherlock read the disappointment all over his face.

“Oh, don’t be an idiot, John. Touch telepathy, remember?” Sherlock scoffed.

“No I bloody don’t remember! You never told me!” John practically shouted.

“Oh. Well. Yes. If I touch you, there is an eighty-three point five percent chance I will be able to determine your mood and a twenty-seven point seven six percent chance I will be able to read your mind. Mind reading is much more efficient when using a mind meld, but one has never been done on a human before. To my knowledge, that is. Mycroft may know otherwise.” Sherlock rambled.

“Sherlock. Shut up.” John snapped. “None of that matters to me. You can already read me like a book. You know me better than I know myself. I already feel as though you can read my mind, what difference does it make if you actually can?”

“John.” Sherlock sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know how to do this. I feel everything when I’m around you. This has never happened before.”

“So we’ll start slow, Sherlock. You think I know how to do this? I’m sitting here with a male alien who started off as my patient, then my flatmate, who became my best friend, and now, here we are having a casual chat about ‘pon farr’ and where we stand with each other.” John ran a hand through his hair in frustration, breathing heavily out of his nose. After a brief pause, he regained his composure.

“Sherlock. All I know is, my world revolves around you. It has ever since that day at St. Bart’s. It would be… illogical for me to put the brakes on now because of a sexual identity crisis or something trivial like that. You don’t know how to do this, and neither do I. But I think, between the two of us, we can figure it out. We always do.” John ran his fingers gently through Sherlock’s cascade of curls, settling on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Slowly, Sherlock raised his hand and placed it on top of John’s, feeling the love radiate through his skin and seep into his pores. Yes, they would figure it out, they always did.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me please! I can only really write when I have spare time and I am not getting much of it these days as I've bought a house and gotten a promotion at work. We're almost halfway done with the story though guys, so thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Much love!

As the weather slowly began to shift into winter, the relationship between John and Sherlock began to change as well. At first it was merely small tokens of affection. Sherlock would sit closer to John while watching crap telly. John would press his head into the crevice between Sherlock’s shoulder blades after a rough day at the surgery. Sherlock would take a bit more care in waking John up at three in the morning when Lestrade called them out on a case. John would take interest in whatever experiment Sherlock was conducting, while still silently praying that the Vulcan would not blow up the kitchen. There were more touches, more glances, more laughter, more smiles. John would wrap Sherlock’s scarf around his slender neck before the detective dashed out the door into the cold climate. Sherlock would press his hand into John’s while walking down the street, and John would then tuck both their hands into his pocket to ensure Sherlock’s warmth. 

Not everything changed. They still argued about who would buy the milk, Sherlock’s tornado of a mess that seemed to continuously follow him about the flat, and Sherlock’s lack of consideration to his own well being. They were still united in their extreme dislike towards Mycroft, who had undoubtedly noticed the change in their relationship and decided that it was his duty to voice his general displeasure toward the situation. The cases still came, some gruesome, some interesting, all involving more running than John was anticipating. 

On John’s suggestion, Sherlock began to take private clients, and a steady stream of money began to flow into the bank account they now shared, on Sherlock’s suggestion. John was much better at managing money than Sherlock, purely due to Sherlock’s lack of interest in the whole process. John was able to move to an on call position at the surgery, which delighted Sherlock because it meant John was almost always able to help with cases. 

Although it had been a month since they had discussed where their relationship was headed, John was reluctant to push Sherlock’s limits on physical intimacy. There were moments when they were wrapped around each other on the couch, mindlessly watching television, where John had to seriously suppress the urge to press his lips to the Vulcan’s cupid bow, to invade Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, to release the straining buttons on Sherlock’s tight shirt and mark the Vulcan’s pale blue skin with love bites. He longed to hear his name escape Sherlock’s lips in a moment of gasping pleasure. Instead, he simply ran his fingers repeatedly through the Vulcan’s soft chocolate curls, and occasionally pressed his lips against Sherlock’s forehead, hoping against hope that the hand Sherlock had entwined in his was too little contact for the Vulcan to get an accurate reading on what exactly he was thinking.

It wasn’t until a day in the first week of December that changed everything. Sherlock had decided to get himself kidnapped while working on a private case involving a missing child. John had been called away to the surgery for the day, and Sherlock had informed him of the details of the case, and assured John he had nothing to worry about. What Sherlock had omitted was the case most likely involved the Russian mafia, which was still extremely active even in this day in age, and they did not particularly enjoy their affairs being meddled in.

After spending eight hours at the surgery and not hearing from Sherlock all day, John began to worry.

Sherlock, where are you? JW [Sent: 17:03]

This really isn’t funny. JW [Sent: 18:25]

A simple text would do. Anything. Yes, no, shut up John, I’m working. Anything. JW [Sent: 19:15]

I’m calling Lestrade. JW [Sent: 20:01]

Lestrade hasn’t heard from you all day. JW [Sent: 20:15]

That’s it. I’m calling Mycroft. JW [Sent: 20:45]

If the threat of Mycroft didn’t stir him, something must be wrong. 

 

I’m going to find you, Sherlock. I love you. JW [Sent: 21:15]

 

Armed with a squadron of Mycroft’s men, John spent the better part of the next six hours sifting through CCTV (which he was fairly certain Mycroft installed throughout London just to keep an eye on Sherlock) looking for any sign of Sherlock. After about three hours, he took a break and left the task to Mycroft. Slipping on his coat, he wandered the darkest alleys of London, looking for any familiar face from Sherlock’s homeless network to enlist their help. Finally he found a young man called Timothy, slipped him one hundred quid and the youth promptly began the search. 

‘Where are you Sherlock?’ John thought to himself as he stared up at the night sky. Sherlock was at least three times as strong as a normal human man, but if there were several people involved in his kidnapping, John refused to think that something worse had happened, John was sure that he would not have been able to overpower them. Maybe Sherlock had not seen this coming. Whenever a case is particularly dangerous, Sherlock always makes certain John, and his gun, are in tow. Maybe Sherlock knew exactly what was involved and due to the shift in their relationship, he was reluctant to put John in harm’s way. Either way, John could not be angry now, not when Sherlock was in danger.  
Eventually, around three in the morning, Timothy came through and provided an address of Sherlock’s last known whereabouts. Mycroft and his minions armed themselves with their new phasers, even giving one to John, and together they stormed an abandoned warehouse, finding not only Sherlock, but the missing girl as well in relatively good condition. The kidnappers, big brutish men, were easily taken down by the phasers set to stun, and were whisked away by Mycroft’s men. John did not want to know what was in store for them.

Sherlock had been punched on the bracket several times, his green blood oozing down his face. He had been tied up to a pole for several hours it seemed, and his long lean legs where barely supporting him. An ambulance had been called previous to entering the warehouse, and the small girl was being well cared for by paramedics. John rushed to Sherlock’s side, and untied him. The man collapsed to the floor.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I should have been here sooner.” John cooed while sinking to the floor next to he Vulcan, propping Sherlock up against his chest. He carefully examined the Vulcan’s face, which was well beaten, but no bones seemed broken. It seemed Sherlock was more exhausted than anything. He and John had a row just yesterday about Sherlock being awake for nearly four weeks. 

“Take me home, John. I’m so cold.” was all the Vulcan managed to say before drifting into unconsciousness. John called over one of Mycroft’s men and together they loaded the poor Vulcan into a car that Mycroft graciously provided. John climbed in next to Sherlock, and propped up his head on his lap, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he so frequently did. He glanced out of the window to see Mycroft staring at him on just the other side of the car door. 

“Take care of my brother, Dr. Watson. I trust I am leaving him in capable hands.” the ginger Vulcan said, narrowing his eyes at John.

“I will, Mycroft. I will.” John rolled up the window and the car speed off toward Baker Street.

 

With the help of the driver, John managed to load Sherlock onto the couch of 221B. John offered the man a twenty quid bill, which was politely refused. “Mr. Holmes makes sure I’m well paid, Dr. Watson, there’s no need.” Mrs. Hudson came into the flat in her nightdress with tea and biscuits and stoked a fire while John scrubbed up and found his medical kit. Once she was done, she wished John goodnight and trotted back downstairs to leave John to his work.

Sherlock’s beautiful face only needed ten stitches, and John was grateful Sherlock was unconscious for this bit. After he was finished working, John put away his medical kit and went into Sherlock’s room to find sleepwear for him. Surprisingly, Sherlock’s room was somewhat intact, and John shifted through his drawers, ignoring the usual silky sleepwear Sherlock favored and selected a pair of cotton trousers and a warm long sleeved cotton shirt. When he came back into the living room, Sherlock’s eyes were open and he was pressing at the tender flesh of his face.

“Don’t touch it, love, I’ve just stitched it up.” John said, setting down the pajamas on Sherlock’s oversized green chair. “Do you think you can walk? You’re sleeping in my room tonight. I’m uncertain if you have hypothermia, but I’d rather not take the chance.” John knelt down by Sherlock’s head and laid a tender kiss against his temple.

“Yes, I think that would be wise.” was Sherlock’s response, and his long fingers found John’s face as he let out a long sigh. They sat there in silence for a moment, John’s lips against Sherlock’s temple, Sherlock’s fingers brushing against John’s cheek. Sherlock broke the silence.

“Will you stay with me?” he asked.

“Of course.” John answered immediately. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs. Lean on me.”

Carefully and gradually, they made their way up the six stairs to John’s room. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, and John began the process of removing his clothing. The silky material slid of Sherlock’s skin like water, and John took in the Vulcan’s slim frame. Sherlock was not skinny, but he was lean and muscular. And blue. Too blue. Verge of hypothermia blue.

“Lift up.” John instructed, and Sherlock raised his sore arms as John slipped the comfortable sleep shirt onto his torso. “Lie back.” It would be easier to remove his trousers lying down.

John removed Sherlock’s shoes and unbuttoned Sherlock’s trousers and began to slide them down. He stopped once he realized that there was skin where there should be pants. 

“Sherlock…are you wearing any pants?”

“….No.”

Despite himself, John burst into a fit of giggles, joined by Sherlock’s low chuckle. 

“Well, I guess this is happening sooner than expected.” John said once he managed to get his laughter under control.

“Come now, John, you’re a doctor.” Sherlock chided.

“And it’s not like you’re in any condition for such activities.” John added. “Here goes. Lift up.” Sherlock raised his hips and John pulled down his trousers in one swift motion, taking in the sight of Sherlock’s body. His skin was gorgeously pale, and John could see the veins of his legs as if they were painted on. His cock was long and thin, much like Sherlock himself, and John had a sudden urge to simply nestle against it. Instead, he tore his gaze away and slipped the cotton trousers on Sherlock’s long legs and tucked him into the covers.

John quickly shed his clothing and tugged on his pajama bottoms, leaving his torso bare, and slipped in next to the Vulcan. Sherlock’s hand found his under the covers and John tugged up to his chest so the man could feel his heart beat. After a moment, Sherlock turned toward him, and placed his uninjured cheekbone on John’s chest, a leg draped over John’s. The Vulcan let out another long sigh as John stroked the back of his long neck.

“Never again, Sherlock. Do you understand me? Never again.” John began, no longer able to contain the anger and hurt that had been eating away at him for over sixteen hours. “If I would have lost you…if something would have happened…I would have never, never, been able to forgive myself.”

“I did not think..”

“No, you didn’t. Because you’re an idiot.” John cut him off. “If you had…before I was even able to tell you… I love you, Sherlock. You can’t include me only when you feel it’s necessary. It’s not just you now, love, it’s me and you. You can’t just leave me behind like that. I can’t lose you.”

Sherlock raised his head and impossible blue eyes met John’s. Very slowly, Sherlock pressed a kiss right above John’s heart, which accelerated its beat. The brush of Sherlock’s soft lips against his skin was exquisite. The Vulcan moved, slowly, carefully, up John’s chest, up his neck, leaving feathery kisses in his wake. Eventually they were face to face, and Sherlock whispered, “Never again” against John’s lips before replacing that whisper with a kiss. John felt the blood coursing through his veins and Sherlock’s own heart began to thud against his chest. John tasted of tea and biscuits and toothpaste and John. Sherlock filed it away in his mind palace as John licked at his bottom lip, seeking entry into his mouth. Sherlock opened up and let John lead, following as he learned. They only parted when they could not breathe, but fell back into the kiss as if they had never stopped. 

‘This is what love feels like..’ Sherlock thought, as he lost himself in John’s kiss. ‘This must be it.’


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I haven't abandoned this story guys. :) Real life has been the absolute worst this past month. I won't bore you with the details, but imagine a month of the worst days of your life. That's what my life has been. I am finally at that point where I'm starting to surface from the haze though, so hang with me guys. Thanks for sticking with me and this fic.

Sherlock was warm when he awoke. He was piled under clothing, a heavy duvet, and his legs were entwined with John’s under the covers. John was radiating body heat and Sherlock took a moment to revel in it. His face was throbbing from his injuries, but he certainly felt more improved than yesterday. Another day or two and he would be healed completely, much to the amazement of John. John. John. John. John. His head was full of John. John’s mouth on his, John’s hand trailing down his back, causing his skin to goosebump, John’s swollen lips after Sherlock finally pulled away, John’s understanding when Sherlock needed time to process what he was feeling. John was breathing steadily at his side, eyes showing indicators of being in the middle of a REM cycle. Best not to wake him at this point or he will feel like he had not slept at all.

Judging from the angle of the light streaming through the gaps in the curtain blocking the window in John’s room, it was between 12:45 and 12:50 in the afternoon. Eight hours of sleep, a rarity for Sherlock. Perhaps John is correct in stating more sleep would do Sherlock some good. He certainly felt more refreshed and clear headed. In fact.... Sherlock reached for John’s phone on the bedside table and quickly wrote a text to Lestrade.

The nanny did it. SH [Sent 12:58]

You’ll have to be a bit more specific. [Sent 13:01]

Cold case file from 2024. Whole family murdered in their house. No witness, no weapons found, no DNA. It was the nanny. SH [Sent 13:02]

Come on Sherlock, how are you getting this? She had three different alibis report she was in the US at the time. Even got a passport stamp [Sent 13:07]

The stamp is a year out of date. US passport design changed in 2024. That stamp is the design from the previous year. It was forged. She was clever, but not clever enough. Keep up. SH [Sent 13:08]

Right, right, I’ll look into it. Keep you updated. [Sent 13:15]

You are abysmally slow at texting. SH [Sent 13:15]

I’m sorry, all I read from that last text was, ‘Don’t bother to call next time there’s a case, Lestrade.’ [Sent 13:18]

We both know that will never be the case. SH [Sent 13:19]

Sherlock put John’s phone back on the bedside table and ran a hand through John’s hair. John at peace was a sight to see. His hair was mussed up, mouth slightly parted, a small pool of drool on his pillow, eyes puffy from sleep, breathing steady and calm. Sherlock breathed in his scent. John smelt like sweat and salt and faintly of pheromones, both his and Sherlock’s. It was a heady combination and a smirk crept on Sherlock’s lips. John never failed to make Sherlock smile, even in the depths of sleep.

The smile quickly faded when Sherlock heard Mycroft’s light tread on the stairs leading up to 221B. He let out an exasperated sigh, pressed a light kiss to John’s temple, and shifted out of the bed, careful not to jostle John. His head throbbed slightly when he reached an upright position, but it dissipated after a moment. He quickly retreated quietly down the seven steps from John’s room to the main floor, hoping he could beat Mycroft to the door, but just as he was reaching the bottom step, Mycroft was making himself comfortable in John’s chair. Damn.

“When I instructed John to look after you, I did not intend for him to take you to bed.” Mycroft said, not bothering to turn and look at Sherlock. He was wearing his trademark pin stripe navy suit, and a red tie to compliment it. How patriotic. A recent haircut made his pointed ears more prominent, but unlike Sherlock, Mycroft did not try and hide his Vulcan features. People respected and feared Mycroft. People thought Sherlock was a silly man playing at being a detective. 

“I had hypothermia. Body heat is the best solution.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, plopping down in his oversized green chair with a humpf. His bedclothes smelled of John, and he pulled his knees to his chest to get better access to the smell, and protect it from Mycroft. Mycroft did not deserve to know what John smelled like when he slept. It was Sherlock’s precious secret.

Mycroft finally looked up at his brother. “Your injuries do look well tended to, I will admit. You look well rested.”

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock questioned, patience for small talk wearing thin. “You’re obviously not here to check up on me, as my injuries were not life threatening, so get on with it.”

Mycroft’s cold grey eyes narrowed and met Sherlock’s. “I shall be departing for Vulcan on the first of January.”

“Have a nice trip, I hear a journey through space is lovely this time of year.” Sherlock replied in a flat tone riddled with sarcasm.

“You will be coming with me.” Mycroft stated.

“I will not.” Sherlock answered.

The two Vulcans began the staring contest, taking in each other’s stature, posture, facial expressions, all while trying to shield these features from the other person. If John were awake, he would sigh and shuffle off to make tea or open his laptop to update his blog. 

“You’re thinking of your doctor.” Mycroft broke the silence. Sherlock did not respond. Mycroft did not need confirmation; the statement was a fact, not a question. “I fear you are making a mistake in this decision, Sherlock.”

“Do not act as if you care, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped at his brother. “You took the Kolinahr, you have no ability to care.”

Mycroft drew in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. After a moment, Mycroft looked back up at his brother.

“Sherlock, there are some connections and emotions that are impossible to rid yourself of completely. You are my family, Sherlock, and I will always worry for you, constantly.” Mycroft grimaced as if admitting this was causing him actual physical pain. “Nevertheless, my concern is not that you have chosen a male partner as a mate. It may have been taboo on Vulcan, but I do not care either way. My concern lays in the fact that you have chosen a human as a mate.”

Oh. 

“Have you considered the bigger picture, Sherlock? You will outlive John by a hundred years or more. Even in the best of scenarios, you will spend half of your life without your mate. After your pon farr, you may lose the intense emotions you are feeling right now. Have you considered how John would react to this? Humans are creatures of emotion, Sherlock. If you care for him, you have to take into account how this will affect him. If you put a stop to this now, and come home with me, you may be able to find a more suitable-“

“No.”

“Sherlock.”

“No, Mycroft.” Sherlock glared at his brother with his impossible eyes. “Do you know what it is to love, Mycroft? Of course you don’t. You leave your mate on Vulcan for years at a time to run the government on the another planet, and every seven years you go home to breed her and carry on with your life.”

“Such is my duty.” Mycroft interjected.

“You took me to Earth with you in hopes that I would find a place I was more at home in. And now that I have found it, you wish for me to put a stop to it. There is no logic in that, Mycroft.” Sherlock said.

Mycroft had nothing to say to that. Sherlock felt compelled to continue.  
“This is my home now, Mycroft. Here, with John. I will not leave him. Living half my life with him will be infinitely better than living a life without him. It is time for you to accept that, and move on.” Sherlock stood. “Leave at your convenience. John should be cycling out of his REM sequence now and it is best I wake him now or he will have a headache later.”

Sherlock turned his back on his brother and trotted up the steps back to John’s room. As he calculated, John’s eyes were no longer darting about under his eyelids. In another thirty seconds, John would wake naturally. Sherlock peeled back the duvet and slipped back underneath the covers, draping his arm around John’s waist, pressing his nose into John’s neck.

John’s eyes fluttered open. He was warm when he awoke. He was piled under clothing, a heavy duvet, and Sherlock’s arm was hugging him tightly about the waist. A smile spread across his face. Sherlock never failed to make John smile.


End file.
